Selfless
by khloride
Summary: Marco chose the shallow celebrity life. For the man who acts as the face of the Animorphs, what really lies deeper?


I think the majority of people interpret the character of Marco about the same. I wasn't trying to go out of my way to take a different view, this is just one set of many perspectives that came out. Even if you don't agree, at some level, it's right to me.

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><p>"Hey there sexy. Who might you be?"<p>

I turn my head slowly in a well-practiced movement while tilting my head slightly in their direction and raising an eyebrow. My response is always, "Who wants to know?"

The answer is something along the lines of "Oh, no one. I just saw you all alone here, looking cute and handsome. I was thinking you looked a little familiar."

To that, I answer, "Well, I've done some movies here and there. I've been on Letterman, Leno, Oprah, you know, all the important shows. After you save the world, you name starts to get around." I always end with a small chuckle and a bright, but not overly eager, smile.

The woman of the moment widens her eyes in fake surprise. "So THAT'S who you are."

After that, the conversation tends to wander around. I get asked what it's like to be rich and famous. A lot of them want to know how I feel knowing I saved the world, what kept me motivated to fight. A few ask me what it feels like to kill another man and to lose fellow Animorphs.

I've got my answers to the questions down pretty well. They vary a bit from person to person, but it's all the same. I play the perfect gentleman. I am exactly who they think I am. I am who they expect me to be. I'm the funny guy that wasn't really affected by what happened. I plowed through the experience and moved on to bigger and better things.

I take them home. They marvel at my mansion and all my idols of wealth. In the end, I take them upstairs and have my way with them. In the morning, my driver takes them home. I never see them again. I perform my duties; I fulfill both my needs and theirs. I am what they see. They expect nothing more.

I lounge around my mansion during the day when there is nothing to do. There rarely is anything to do. I get cast in plenty of movies and do the occasional TV appearance, but it still leaves a lot of free time. Time to be filled with what Marco wants to do. But what do I want to do?

When I'm alone, I feel anxious. I get jittery and start to sweat. No one is there to tell me that I'm acting ridiculous and to just calm down.

I thought about things other people do when they are stressed. My first attempt at a solution was to hire a masseuse. That helped me only while I was actually receiving a massage. The moment she would leave, even though my body was relaxed, my brain would start to race again. It didn't help.

My second attempt was to take a vacation. I took a trip to the most popular places in the world, places everyone says you should see at least once in your lifetime. The cities were packed and the beaches were crowded. I was recognized everywhere, and the people kept me busy. But they told me I was doing it wrong. As someone with vast funds, I could afford to go to the most remote and luxurious places with woman of the moment to "get away from it all." I listened. The woman of the moment was a bore. We talked for hours about nothing. Somehow, that kept her happy, but not me.

It wasn't just her. It's all of them, everyone. And it's no one.

When I'm alone, I want to be around people. When I'm with people, I feel like I'm being smothered by them. There is so much expectation, so little response, not enough reassurance. Why can't I find a balance? What's wrong with me?

That's the question. What's wrong with me? It led me to speak to the one person who always seemed to be able to interpret any situation and find the deeper solution that I could never see, Cassie.

When I spoke to her, I quickly slipped into my role of the lighthearted jokester. We reminisced a bit, and I made her laugh. She looked like she needed the laugh, too. But nagging in the back of my mind was that voice telling me to ask her my question. My lips just couldn't seem to form the words. Cassie doesn't expect me to be the introspective sort. To her, I'll always be the funny one who, when the situation comes down to it, can become cold and calculating.

Cassie, being Cassie, noticed anyway. She saw through my act, asking me the question I wanted to ask her. "What's wrong with you?"

The ice was broken. I didn't have to funny anymore. I told her about my problems in a strange manner, using the same tone that I had used when I would explain our battle strategies. I felt like I was trying to win against myself. When I finally finished and asked her, "what's wrong with me?"

Her response was simple. Frowning, she shook her head and asked, "Who are you?"

That ended the conversation. Cassie left. I never had a conversation that felt real with her after that.

Who am I?

Am I the one who makes everyone laugh? Am I the cute one that can have anyone he wants? Am I the one who sees the bigger picture and the line from A to B? Am I the one that knows when to get things done and in the most ruthless way possible? Am I? Who am I and what do I want?

I always know who I am when I'm with other people. But it's not fulfilling. I always live up to their expectations. I always charm everyone in the room. I am what they call "good and proper." Not even I am dissatisfied with my behavior because I act perfectly and to the tee. Yet, I feel like I'm being drowned with the need to be the person that others want me to be. It's always about other people. Has it always been that way?

I want to say no. I want to say I can be my own man. But I'm not sure I can.

Even when I was little, I wanted to be a famous comedian. Fame. In order to achieve fame, you need others to give it to you. It is not possible to be famous as a singular. Other people have to acknowledge that even more people know who you are. Comedy. I used to make jokes all the time. Even if most of the people called them lame, I found delight in them. It was the only thing that I had for myself. I didn't need others to give it to me. That changed; I changed. My humor shifted to mostly sarcasm. Sarcasm relies on other people. I make jokes at their expense. But now they think I'm funny. Their laughter urges me on. It tells me that I'm a comic. Strangely, I can't remember anymore the jokes I made when I didn't need the laughs to know I was being funny.

When we were at war, I didn't want to fight. No one expected me to want to fight. I wanted to be there for my dad. He needed me to give him support because I needed him. Without him, I would have had nothing left. When I found out about my mother, I fought for myself and for her. I guess I had what most would consider a typical reaction. It's the memories of when I came close to killing her myself that scare me. Who was that person? Was that really me? Was that the real me?

After, when there was no war, when I was supposed to go out on my own as a man, I had no leader to turn to in order to give me my purpose. I don't know what to do anymore. I need people to give me their expectations. I need their praise to know what I'm doing is right. For when I'm alone, there is no one, and I have nothing to do. I have no expectations for myself. It isn't boredom. It is long, dragging periods of extreme anxiety and anticipation.

Maybe I'm a no one now. Maybe I really wasn't anyone. Maybe if things had gone differently, I could have figured out who I really was. I took the orders; war gave me directions on what to do and how to behave. Nothing, nothing I took was ever because of selfishness. The demands of war gave me a purpose and a role. I became used to receiving orders. I got used to receiving expectant looks. I had a job that was _given_ to me. I can't remember how to take what I want, how to take something that wasn't given to me, something I earned.

I missed out on the chance to ask myself what I want, what I want to do, what I want to be, what I like, what I really am like. Up from the ocean depths of war to the shallow pools of the limelight, what was I? Who am I?

I am the selfless one. I did things for others because I couldn't do them for me. I am whoever you want me to be because there is no me. I truly am selfless. I have left myself empty. It is dissatisfying and humorless.


End file.
